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Olcott, Frances Jenkins, 1872-1963

"Good Stories for Holidays"

Thou hadst compassion on my oak,
and in saving it thou hast saved my life. Now,
ask me what thou wilt that I can give, and it
shall be thine.''
``Beauteous nymph,'' answered Rhoecus, with a
flutter at the heart, ``surely nothing will satisfy
the craving of my soul save to be with thee forever.
Give to me thy love!''
``I give it, Rhoecus,'' answered she with sadness
in her voice, ``though it be a perilous gift. An hour
before sunset meet me here.''
And straightway she vanished, and Rhoecus
could see nothing but the green glooms beneath
the shadowy oak. Not a sound came to his straining
ears but the low, trickling rustle of the leaves,
and, from far away on the emerald slope, the
sweet sound of an idle shepherd's pipe.
Filled with wonder and joy Rhoecus turned his
steps homeward. The earth seemed to spring
beneath him as he walked. The clear, broad sky
looked bluer than its wont, and so full of joy was
he that he could scarce believe that he had not
wings.
Impatient for the trysting-time, he sought some
companions, and to while away the tedious hours,
he played at dice, and soon forgot all else.
The dice were rattling their merriest, and Rhoecus
had just laughed in triumph at a happy throw,
when through the open window of the room there
hummed a yellow bee. It buzzed about his ears,
and seemed ready to alight upon his head.


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